Above All Else
by BookQ36
Summary: ENT 0.3 Malcolm Reed's last mission with section 31
1. Chapter 1

**Many thanks to my invaluable Beta, LoyaulteMeLie, who has given me pointers on British phrasings and spellings, and who suggested the title. Any flaws remaining in this story are my doing, not hers.**

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This above all, to thine own self be true,

And it must follow as the night the day

Thou canst not then be false to any man.

~ _Hamlet_, Act one, scene three

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1

_Sunset District, San Francisco, CA, 0400 hours, October 3, 2149 _

Malcolm Reed was roused from a deep slumber by the sound of an incoming vid-call. He rolled out of bed and blinked himself awake on the way over to the monitor at his desk, entering a few keystrokes into the keyboard before he sat down. The monitor flickered and a familiar face stared back at him. Harris, the head of Section 31 and his direct superior for the last year and a half, was somewhere in his forties or fifties, it was hard to tell, and he had gray hair, shrewd eyes and a smile which seemed kindly but was anything but.

"We have an assignment for you, Mr. Reed. The team is assembling at headquarters in one hour for a mission briefing."

Malcolm nodded, sitting up straight in the closest approximation of 'attention' that was possible while still remaining seated. "Understood, sir. I'm on my way."

Harris nodded slightly, neither his voice or face betraying any reaction when he replied, "Very good. We will expect to see you shortly." His jaw muscles tightened slightly and he closed the channel without another word, leaving Malcolm staring at a blank screen.

Even after working for the man for eighteen months, Malcolm still had trouble reading Harris' expressions. He supposed that was an asset for Harris in their career of spying, espionage and duplicity, but it made serving under him a bit unpredictable. Being able to tell if his superior was pleased or disappointed with his performance was a useful rudder, and without it, Malcolm often found himself at a disadvantage. How could he be expected to correct flaws which he didn't know existed?

He shook his head as he stood up. He shouldn't be thinking about trying to do damage control on damage which might not even exist. It was appropriate that Harris was a closed book, because a commander like that kept all of his subordinates on their toes. A spy who allowed themselves to become complacent had a very short life expectancy indeed; with a boss like Harris no one in the Section would ever became complacent.

Malcolm grabbed a quick shower, had a shave and put some water on for tea once he was done, then he toweled off and began to get dressed.

The calendar caught his eye as he started pulling on his clothes and he let out a heavy sigh. The next day, October 4th, was marked in red and had a notation 'lunch with Jean' written on it. Missions for Harris rarely took less than forty-eight hours, which meant that he would be God-only-knew-where when he was supposed to be having lunch with his friend. Malcolm shook his head resignedly and fastened the closure on his pants. He obviously had to cancel lunch. It wasn't the first time he had needed to cancel on her because of a 'business trip', but each time he felt a stronger twinge of guilt at doing it.

The whistling of the tea kettle sliced through his thoughts and he briskly walked over to the stove, opening the valve on the kettle's spout to quiet it before removing it from the heat. He poured boiling water over the tea bags, watching in a semi-hypnotized state as gentle curls of steam rose into the air above his mug. The smell of the tea woke him up and he shook his head at himself as he put the kettle aside, annoyed that he had allowed himself to become distracted. He finished getting dressed, ran a comb through his hair and set about fixing something to eat. By this time it wasn't even half past four, which meant that he had time enough to make a decent breakfast. It was the work of a few minutes to scramble a few eggs, toast some bread and heat up a couple links of pre-cooked sausage. Once breakfast was cooked it was barely gone 0430, so he was able to sit by the window and enjoy his food at a fairly leisurely pace. He drank his tea black with one sugar, and this morning he had made enough to fill not only his breakfast mug, but also a travel mug which he routinely brought to early morning mission briefings. Malcolm finished the last of his food and filled the travel mug with sweetened tea before depositing his dishes in the sink, shrugging on his coat and exiting the apartment.

When he had first joined Section 31, he had found it exciting. The subterfuge and tactical finesse of it, the firefights and explosions… especially the explosions. It had all been very romantic after a fashion, and he had enjoyed playing at being James Bond for a while, but things were different now. More and more frequently, the missions had become hard for him to stomach, and although he couldn't be certain, he had a feeling that Harris was irritated by his moral stance. He had no idea what this new mission would be about, but he hoped that it would have an honourable aim… and not one that only seemed honourable after Harris had spent quite some time explaining _why _it was the right thing to do. Still, despite the shades of grey which he had grown distasteful of, there was still something exciting, if inconvenient, about being woken in the wee hours of the morning and needing to rush off to a secret facility for a briefing.

He smiled to himself as he locked the door and headed downstairs. There was a lift in his building, but in the mornings he preferred to use the stairs because he found that doing so was an excellent way to wake himself up. It was still dark out by the time he reached the street, and despite light pollution from the city he could still see a few dozen stars. One star seemed brighter than the rest, but he knew that it wasn't actually a star. It was the underbelly of Starfleet's first ship, the NX-01 Enterprise, still under construction at an orbital launch platform. Her launch date was set for sometime in the spring of 2151, and he wondered what that ship would mean for the future of humanity.

His apartment was at the intersection of Noriega Street and 43rd Avenue in the Sunset District. He had been very specific about the sort of place he wanted to rent, to the point where he might have frustrated the real estate agent who had been assigned to him. He wanted to live somewhere on the east coast of the city, so as to take advantage of the breezes off of the Pacific, but he didn't want to be close enough to either see or hear the ocean. Malcolm had stressed that to the agent in no uncertain terms, and the man had been puzzled by the odd request but had come through. The south west winds off the ocean were blessedly pollen-free, and since he was situated both south and east of the cities' many parks, no annoying particulates were blown past his home at any point of the year. A number of good restaurants and clubs were within walking distance of his place, as well as a bar which he was quite fond of, so all in all he felt that he had chosen wisely. Malcolm sighed as he got into his flitter. There was one advantage to being roused at such a God-awful hour: he didn't have to worry about traffic.


	2. Chapter 2

2

_Surplus Material Storage Facility B (aka Section 31 HQ), Richmond District, San Francisco, CA, 0455 hours, October 3, 2149_

Malcolm took his seat in the briefing room five minutes before Harris arrived, and he used the time to look around at the rest of his team. They were all seated around a circular table which always reminded him of _Le Morte d'Arthur,_ and even though the quests that this particular band of knights carried out were a far cry from the exploits of Camelot, he knew that the idealized version of Arthur and Medieval chivalry which had survived to the modern day was equally remote from the brutal truth of how Medieval knights actually behaved.

Their squad leader, Danny Gutierrez, was brave, fair-minded and stern. He had a fierce smile, was built like an ox and had a slight, lilting Castilian accent. He also doubled as the engineer on their freighter, _Chimera _and could fix and utilize pretty much any piece of equipment they came across. Frank Stephens, the medic and Gutierrez' unofficial second, was a gruff no-nonsense type from Texas, and he had the drawl to prove it. Stephens was equally comfortable inflicting injuries or tending to them, and while Malcolm had occasionally seen a flicker of distaste or unease cross his face during a mission briefing for wet-works assignments, he had never voiced any qualms about assassinations to either the group or Harris. Irena Koslovsky, their pilot, was calm, efficient and one hell of a flier. More than once she had pulled off an L-4 or a Crazy Ivan to get rid of ships that were trying to follow them. Malcolm admired her skill and knew how integral she was to the team, but every so often his queasy stomach would lodge a complaint against her. Malcolm served as the team's ordnance and tactical officer, ensuring that they were stocked up on functional weapons , employing or disarming explosive devices as the situation called for it, and analyzing their enemies' tactics and outmaneuvering them in either ship-to-ship or firefight situations. The last member of the team, and most certainly the least as far as Malcolm was concerned, was Matt Zuger. Malcolm didn't know where Zuger was from, and he didn't care to find out. Zuger was extra muscle, nothing more, although he did have a disturbing lust for inflicting harm on others. Malcolm had a nasty feeling that the only jobs Zuger truly enjoyed were the ones where he had the chance to kill something, and he suspected that Zuger had been the kind of child who enjoyed pulling the wings off of insects.

Zuger made no secret of the fact that he thought that Malcolm's less than perfect health was a liability to the team, and while they worked together quite well in combat situations, during down-time before and after missions there was always an element of tension between the two of them. The first time Malcolm had turned green during an L-4, Zuger had not only been quick to point it out to the rest of the team, but he had even gone so far as to tag him with the tactless nickname of 'Malady Malcolm.' The rest of the team had seemed to think the name was amusing, which stung Malcolm more than he cared to admit, but he thought that the jibe would simply be forgotten like so many other jokes had been before. Unfortunately the name had stuck after a mission where Malcolm's allergies had been particularly bad and the team had actually needed to abort their plans in order to get him medical attention. Some time after that, it became common practice for either Zuger or Stephens to start a job off by saying 'lets hope Malady Malcolm doesn't blow this one for us.' Stephens seemed to be a man of high principle, but he wasn't perfect and he wasn't exactly charitable when it came to dealing with the added stress of having to be vigilant about the health of his 'sickly' team mate.

The rest of the team got on very well together, leaving Malcolm the odd man out. He didn't want to have an out and out fight with Zuger… most of the time, in any case, and he didn't want to potentially show weakness by tipping his hand to the fact that Zuger's comments got to him. Besides, he saw Zuger as a Neanderthal and Malcolm didn't want to stoop to the other man's level, so to avoid a potential confrontation or any unnecessary unpleasantness he mainly kept to himself. When they were in transit he usually spent most of his time either shut up in his quarters or manning the weapons console on the bridge. Sometimes when he was on the bridge he and Koslovsky would talk, but they didn't have very much in common so most of the time they would just enjoy a companionable silence.

Harris came into the briefing room at precisely 0500 and started the briefing without any preamble. "Operatives, we have received intelligence that a group of Rigelians are planning on stealing virulent disease samples which are en route to a top-secret storage facility known as Cold Station 12. The facility is used to store hazardous viruses and pathogens for research purposes. The Rigelians' plan is to sell samples of these diseases to the highest bidder, who will most likely not be using them for research. The facility itself is difficult to breach, but the medical transport ships which supply it are not well armed and this particular shipment does not have an armed escort, making it even more vulnerable. Your mission is to rendezvous with the _Beshern, _accompany her to Cold Station 12 and prevent this heist or, failing that, to destroy the Rigelian ship. Under no circumstances can the Rigelians be allowed to carry out this heist. Does anyone have questions or concerns?"

Malcolm cleared his throat. Zuger rolled his eyes and Malcolm was fairly certain that he saw a flash of irritation cross Harris' face. "Yes, Mr. Reed?" There was also a some annoyance in Harris' voice, but Malcolm knew his question was legitimate, so he pressed on.

"What sort of armaments and defensive capabilities do these Rigelians have?"

Harris nodded, apparently finding the question valid. "Their tactical information is on the _Chimera_'s computer, as well as schematics of their vessels, and their language has been loaded into your universal translator. Any other questions?"

No one spoke, so Harris nodded again. "Everyone needs to be on the _Chimera _by oh-eight hundred hours. There will be shuttles going to the _Chimera _every quarter hour starting at oh-seven hundred. Dismissed."


	3. Chapter 3

3

_Sunset District, San Francisco, CA, 0700 hours, October 3, 2149 _

Malcolm waited to call Jean until he got home from the mission briefing. He checked the contents of his ever-ready bag and was almost set to head out for the shuttle. He had been putting off calling her for a couple of reasons; primarily because he didn't want to wake her at some ungodly hour to give her the bad news, but also because he wanted to delay having to give said news for as long as possible, since he hated to see the disappointed look which he knew would inevitably pass over her face. She would try to hide it, of course, and tell him it wasn't a problem, but her willingness to accommodate his unpredictable 'business trips' always made him feel that much guiltier about cancelling their plans. If she got angry about the rain-checks then he could at least have the satisfaction of telling her that work was more important than socializing, but as it was, he was perennially stuck being the bad guy.

By then it was around 0710 and he knew that she would be awake and getting ready for work. He sat down at his desk and steeled himself to place the call. He dialed her number and waited for her face to appear on the screen.

She smiled at him, sitting back in her chair and putting aside a mug of what he knew was most likely Twining's Earl Grey. She took hers with milk and one sugar. "Good morning, Malcolm."

She had brought what looked like a bowl of oatmeal over with her to answer the call, and he realized that he had caught her in the middle of breakfast. He tried to push aside his guilt at having to cancel on her, but seeing how glad she was to hear from him only made him feel worse about what he had to say. Malcolm still mustered a smile for her. She needed to know that he was glad to see her in spite of the circumstances.

"Good morning." He sighed heavily, shaking his head and dropping his eyes briefly before looking up at her again. "I'm sorry to be doing this again, but I got an off-world assignment early this morning and I won't be able to meet you for lunch tomorrow."

As he expected, she looked disappointed by the news. Her face fell and she slowly put aside her tea, shaking her head and not looking at him. When she spoke, there was a resigned tone to her reply. "Do you know how long you'll be gone?" She only met his eyes after she had spoken.

Malcolm felt a slight knot form in his stomach at the hurt expression on her face. He briefly, _very briefly_, considered suggesting that they could meet up that morning. They might be able to squeeze in a coffee and a bite to eat before he had to catch his shuttle… but no, there probably wasn't time enough. In any case, she was expected at the hospital and he didn't want her to be late either. "I'll probably get back late on the sixth or early on the seventh."

Her shoulders sagged, but after a moment she made a half-hearted 'never mind' gesture with one hand. "Well, it can't be helped, right? You've gotta go do some big important thing and…" she cut herself off, but he had a good idea of what she had been about to say: 'and our plans go out the window.' He knew that was the way it had to be, but the knowledge was hardly comforting. Jean shook her head, composing herself with a visible effort, and offered a sheepish smile. "Sorry. I know it's your job. Just promise you'll make it up to me?"

He nodded, relieved that she understood. "You have my word." His mouth twitched into the beginnings of a smile as a thought occurred to him. "We'll do a movie night as soon as I get back, your choice of films."

She crossed her arms and sat back in her chair, leveling a stern look at him. "A _couple _of movie nights, you mean, as well as a lunch or two… and no backing out," Jean smirked, "even if the sky is falling."

Instead of trying to distance herself from him, as he had expected her to do after so many cancellations, she seemed intent on spending more time with him. Very intent, in fact. He shook his head with an amused sigh and, encouraged by the unexpected demand, added a sweetener to his offer. "Done. I'll even sit through one of your interminable chick flicks, if you like."

"Hmm," Jean narrowed her eyes at him playfully. "I guess that'll have to do, Mr. Reed." Her playful mood seemed to fade and she uncrossed her arms, sitting forward again and looking earnestly concerned. "Promise me you'll be careful?"

He sighed. She always said that. It felt good in a way, knowing that she cared enough about him to worry, but he didn't like to be a burden on her. Besides, in his line of work there were no guarantees, especially when it came to Rigelian pirates, and the last thing he wanted to do was cause her any grief. "I'll do my best."

She nodded and forced a smiled. "You always do. Good luck, Malcolm. I'll call you on the seventh." She hesitated before adding, "I'll miss you."

_That _caught him off guard. Not that she would think it, but that she would express it. He cleared his throat uneasily and heard himself give the expected reply, although his voice faltered a bit as he realized the truth of his words. "I'll… miss you, too."

He smiled back stiffly and closed the call, feeling slightly guilty about having to keep her in the dark, but such was the life of a spy. He stood up from his desk, frowning. He _would _miss her, and that was a problem. When had she become so important to him, and how had she managed to bypass his defences and get so close? He shook his head. This should come easily to him. After all, he had spent most of his life keeping other people at arm's length, which was one of the reasons Harris had sought him out in the first place, so why was he suddenly having difficulty with it now? Maybe it was because every so often when he was spending time with Jean he found himself unable to look her in the eye, or maybe because he couldn't help thinking about the diametrically opposed reasons why each of them ended up with blood on their hands at the end of a hard day at work. He doubted that she would hold in such high regard if she knew what his 'business trips' consisted of. The thought of Jean's skilful hands trying to mitigate damage which he had inflicted on one of his missions was almost too much for him to bear. He shook his head as images of the last person he had killed flashed before his mind's eye. Maybe it was time to think about his options, about the possibility of doing something other than Harris' dirty work. This mission had a noble enough aim, but jobs like this were few and far between, and no matter how noble it was at the outset, he knew that it would most likely end up with a body count, either human or otherwise. Malcolm shook his head again as he set about double-checking the contents of his ready-bag. It was definitely time to think about doing something else with his life, preferably something which he didn't have to lie about and which wouldn't slowly but surely corrode his sense of honour. He would give the matter serious thought… after this mission was over.


End file.
